VALARR TARGARYEN doesn't have a custom title currently.
Location: No Information
Born: No Information
Website: No Information
Alias: No Information
Sworn To: No Information
Born to: Targaryen
App: No Information
Shipper: No Information
Request: No Information
Joined: 6-September 17
Last Seen: Mar 13 2018, 01:42 PM
Local Time: Mar 20 2018, 05:51 AM
33 posts (0.2 per day)
( 0.31% of total forum posts )
Mar 6 2018, 03:26 PM
I'm not making this properly right now because I'm lazy but if you have a thread idea for one of these rapscallions throw ideas at me.
Thoros Swann (comes with explicit warnings cause boy be cray)
Feb 18 2018, 02:03 PM
Home. Well almost. It hadn’t surprised him when he’d been taken to King’s Landing rather than Summerhall, after all he’d been so close to death, teetered on the edge again as if the flirtation brought him some kind of thrill. No matter what happened in his life he somehow managed to become a spectacle, there was no will in the world which would have allowed him to sail off to Essos and return without an elaborate tale of heroism. The Silver Prince had steered Luce’s fleet from ambush, blessed with knowledge from the Gods; or at least that’s what the sailors had murmured. Touched with luck. That much was perhaps true. As if that wasn’t enough the pair had gone on to defeat the odds, seized as hostages, fought to what was meant to be the death, rescued through Dragon fire with regards to the streak of blue-lightening herself. There were sword-fights, drowning, blood and gore. Everything a good old-fashioned bed-tale was meant to include. Perhaps the Prince would have preferred a quiet adventure, a voyage without disturbance followed with a light scuffle on-land under the silhouette of Ghiscar - but that was hard to imagine. Life had never quite panned out how he predicted, which held an ironic sentiment when he considered the glimpses he’d been given of future things. Dreams that were albeit quite easy to misinterpret but informative all the same.
In truth he couldn’t quite remember returning, there were moments of segmented pieces he could stick together, fragments of broken people he could just about recollect if he tried with all his might. The sound of the ocean had caused him to convulse in a fit of terror, intensified due to the opium and so he’d been subdued into a state of dreamless sleep. Unnatural sleep. In brief instances it had broken, those were the moments he could almost remember, brief conversations fluttering in his head is spells of dizziness, distorted and strange. Memories that one couldn’t quite be certain if they were real of fantasies concocted in fear. One thing he could recall, could remember with distinct certainty, were thoughts of Luce. He hadn’t seen him since they’d been taken to land on the back of Ghiscar, his first ride shared with his good-brother. There wasn’t a man in Westeros in that moment he’d rather have had in his stead. Then he’d been in a tent, encountering his good-sister for the first time. Fate was a strange, taunting mistress and for some reason she’d found much delight in presenting him with the most unusual circumstances. After that came the boat and a deep unsettling feeling of being too hot, burning, itching and burning. If he could have torn the flesh from his bone there was no doubt in his mind he would have raked each inch beneath his fingernails until the sensation had ceased in favour of pain.
Once he’d woken again the haze about his head had taken awhile to clear, as if a fog continued to settle in the corner of his vision threatening to obscure all in his sight. He’d vomited, choked and spluttered, the taste of sea water still apparent on his tongue. The maester said it was all in his mind, that the ever-present aroma of salt was a trick, that he couldn’t hear the sea beneath his bed tossing him from side to side in his sleep. He’d proclaimed he had more important things to concern himself with, like the wound to his waistline, the lacerations to his chest, remembering to move his fingers so that the ligaments wouldn’t stiffen. Important things which seemed insignificant when chased with dreams, nightmares more clear than all those he’d had before. There were times he’d even thrown a tantrum, howled for the sweet oblivion the poppy-seed offered. But he’d been denied it, rightfully so, by order of the King. People had visited him in such states, but he couldn’t recall them, they’d been nothing more than disfigurements floating in the backdrop. Of course in time he’d calmed, the after-math of pain relief settled and he’d returned to his former-self - or at least a similar man if not a little more serious with the same dark bruises circling his eyes.
It was then he’d begun to ask questions, overcome with a nagging curiousness of all events. What had become of Tyrion Lannister? Where were Allara and Alea? What had become of his child, of his siblings? What of the North? The damn North which continued to come to him, assault him in each moment of peace he clung too. The vast expanse of endless white, too quiet and too calm, an all too familiar sight. So sombre in appearance, a silent wildness. Some questions he’d received answers too, some were brushed aside as if those he asked weren’t sure themselves. Some were answered himself in the depths of his dreams. But no matter who visited, what came to him, or what he was told, nothing infuriated him more than the fact every time he attempted to get out of bed there was someone at his side pushing him back down as if he wasn’t a Prince at all.
Oct 21 2017, 05:04 PM
So I'm off to Ireland and I'll be gone all week. Expect snapchats of Winterfell though, I intend to be wearing a cape - they better provide them and swords.
See you all next weekend <3
Sep 22 2017, 08:55 AM
War had been a frequent state of mind for the Silver Prince, it seemed he’d spent more time engaged in battles than he had in Summerhall. Torn from his wife and unable to see Allara or the child that would no doubt have taken its first breath in his absence. Instead he’d been posted on a vessel, the sculpted figure head of a dragon breaking the ocean in a sharp split. It had been an encounter like none he’d faced to date, but he’d known of their ambush, he’d seen it in the midst of his dreams. So he’d informed Lucerys of a ‘feeling’ that had taken him and they’d come about the waiting fleet in a violent clash of reversed surprise. Ghiscar had led the charge, twisting through the clouds appearing like blue lightening in swift bursts. It had taken no longer than a moment before the shrill screams had sounded above the clash of metal and rush of water brushing the wooden sides. The smell of burnt flesh festered beneath the clouds of rising black, the men on both sides spluttering in the smoke. It was a sound the Prince was becoming familiar with, the decisive sound of men suffocating, choking on their own desperation to cling to clear air.
The first ship was conquered with ease, half the men had thrown themselves overboard to extinguish the flames nipping at their skin. Those that remained fell beneath an onslaught of blades, the varnished deck beneath smeared red. Valarr held no hesitation in disposing of those that opposed his bloodline, it was like hunting but it required less patience, more speed. The sounds were noises he’d become insensitive too, it was nothing more than white-noise humming under the crackle of rising flames, hidden beneath the groan of falling pine. Once seized the ship was driven into another, the roping intertwined in a tangle as the sails collapsed into one another. From there he’d leapt across, keen to fall into the frenzied mass of armed men riddled with doubt with the sound of Ghiscar bellowing overhead. The second however proved far more challenging than the first, the men more experienced or perhaps better trained struck with accurate cause and moved with a lightness which reminded him of Dorne. With each encounter his muscles ached a little more, his chest heaved a little harder and his heart pounded with a newfound fierceness.
It was the fourth boarded ship that brought the most resistance, the captain’s ship. He’d been identified in the distance, half-obscured within the smoke but clear enough to target. Lucerys had driven them towards it, as if the ocean itself rallied behind his decision. Both ships took more damage than Valarr could comprehend, for he wasn’t well versed in boats and he’d never taken much of an interest in their existence. Somehow he still managed to get them close enough, near enough so that the Prince and his men, soaked in blood both their own and of others, could climb aboard. Recalling all he’d learn in his childhood, all his training in youth, all the instruction he’d been given, the Prince weaved through each challenge. Wielding Dark Sister with silent pride, the weapon reminding him fondly of his father and reminding him of the reason he stood tempting the stranger once again. The Prince had embraced the idea of death once, opened it with the exposure of his chest, willing to sacrifice one life for another. Since then he’d not feared it. Since then he found himself grinning like some possessed madman at each strike from his opponent. Even in the midst of war, with his pale cheeks set aflame with streaks of borrowed blood, the Prince’s mouth curled into a cattish grin, as if executing some extreme exercise rather than engaging in war.
The foreign captain had time to analyse his challenger, watching as Valarr charged towards him with a wild determination. Perhaps that was the reason he interpreted each movement, guessing each style with careful consideration. He was fast, his movement fluid and his feet weightless. It would come as no surprise, and Valarr would find no shame in admitting, he suffered several painful blows. The jolt to his chest knocked the air from his lungs and the hilt driven into the crook of his ribs caused his muscles to spasm and his legs to groan beneath a sudden weakened shake. Twice the enemies blade almost caught his throat, but twice he escaped. It was once the sword was knocked from his fingers and Valarr was forced to absorb the impact of a downward strike forearm to forearm, that the Prince unveiled a dagger from his boot and drove it straight through the captain’s chin. It was a moment of relief, the quiet split of maimed flesh seemed louder in his ear as the blood dribbled down the metal, reaching to cloud against his gloved hand. With a rather grotesque squeal and a short violent tremor the man fell forwards and the Prince staggered back upon his feet, the pain in his side a persistent ache that urged him to bend forwards but he resisted the impulse.
Looking out against the carnage he raised his reclaimed sword, the orange light reflected from the flame caught like fire along the blade, “I Prince Valarr Targaryen claim this ship for —-“ Before he could even finish the sentence he found himself forced to look upwards, the shrill wail from Ghiscar snatching his attention in time to see the burning silhouette of another vessel barreling towards the one on which he stood.
He found his mind spinning with a sudden nausea, to go down with the ship or to go down without it. Ghiscar couldn’t reach him. In that millisecond of thought he’d become aware of that. But he detested the ocean. On occasion he’d dipped his feet into it, even swam when encouraged. For the most part swimming was reserved for lakes, small rivers in pleasant places where creatures didn’t lurk in the darkness. Where the waves didn’t wish to unleash an inhuman wrath on those that ventured too far. It didn't matter. He didn’t have time to think, to contemplate or consider what might be more beneficial. For in that moment he leapt with the others, chased the figures of fleeing men into the deep. The impact was perhaps the most pleasant part, the water wasn’t baltic but was cold enough to compliment the unusual warmth of his skin. But then the stinging. The pain like needles beneath the flesh struggling to escape. The constriction of his chest seemed to tighten as his side stiffened and his legs refused to kick, refused to push upwards and his lips split to inhale for air in a moment of panic. A moment that brought a sensation like grit being forced down his throat to force him to writhe within the emptiness. Dragons didn’t belong in water.
Sep 7 2017, 10:08 AM
Blistered flesh, pale white skin split ajar to expose a bloodless crater, ripe red beneath the surface. A hurricane of frost, blinding in its vast spirals, the white abyss consuming like white mist between the trees. It almost appeared pristine in its grandeur, spotless if one discounted the elms splitting wedges of faded green against the ice. He could see them, bound in thick fur, trembling with lips tainted a darkening blue with colourless cheeks puckering between trembles. There was a scream caught beneath the surface, silence under the pressure of jittering teeth and a numbing tongue. The Silver Prince could do nothing but watch after him, chase the imprints of his staggered steps as he trudged as fast as the weight he burdened himself with permitted. A glance across his shoulder. Then another. For a moment he couldn’t quite decipher what the man appeared to be waiting for, what terrified him beyond measure. But then it came. Skeletal, or perhaps almost skeletal, for the remains of what might have been flesh peeled back to expose worn ligaments and obscured tendons. First just one, but then another. Those violent eyes of the wildest blue seemed to emit a light of their own source, vibrant in the chill, but almost inviting.
Run rabbit run.
The thought tossed about his mind as he looked upon the man, observing the chase as if it was nothing more than an annual joust. He’d grown accustomed to finding them, to catching a harrowing glimpse at something he didn’t understand. No matter how much he watched, nor how long for, he couldn’t quite decide what was occurring, or how it had become fascinating. An impulsive coaxed him forward, to pursue the predators in their hunt, but one turned. One fiendish head twisted about its exposed neck to cast a single glance through his being and as if he’d been punched he found himself falling back upon his bed with nothing but the cold air thrusting itself through his lungs to comfort him as he sprung upright with a sudden jolt.
It was dark, what little of the sun still managed to penetrate the cloud had not battled for its right to the morning. Instead it suffocated beneath the brooding mass of assorted whites and bulging blacks. The skies engorged like some throbbing bruise. It took little time to dress, his torso wrapped in a paling blue while his legs fell into a light beige with black boots entrapped about his feet. “Alistair, fetch my flute. I’d quite like to play this morning.” The young lad with auburn curls and a crooked nose offered his crooked smile before abandoning the basin he’d been filling to scamper into the adjoined apartment. Since his return from the battlefield he hadn’t composed, hadn’t found delight in the music which had once entertained his wandering soul. It took a moment but after a considerable amount of noise and a string of murmured apologies the lad returned, polishing the instrument with an emerald silk flannel. “No need for that, now run along to the stables, inform them Prince Valarr has instructed you exercise his horse.” There was a moment the lad forgot himself, a fraction of an instant the sound of excitement caught within his throat and threatened to burst before simmering to a delighted squeak, “M’Prince.”
For a moment he looked upon the vacant space that the child had filled and for a moment he found himself grinning, the smile alight with such ease that it seemed to brighten the air around him. Since Aegon’s return he’d felt himself relax, he’d felt the tension ease in his muscles, but he’d known it would happen. He hadn’t seen Aegon perish across the sea, he hadn’t been disheartened with dreams of a Targaryen corpse. Instead he’d seen a cloud of ash, a smoke so thick it distorted the clouds. He’d found himself standing against a burning shore, listening to the thrash of biting flames and the faint echo of crumbling stone. Screams. But then he always heard screams.
Dismissing the thought he turned himself from his bed-chamber, turned again through a second apartment and cast himself into the corridors. In perfect synchronisation the guards charged with his wellbeing, some that had guarded him in childhood, fell into line. An ensemble of red against black, black against metal. Then a single Prince adorned in the colours of a pale winter morning, but aglow with the warmth of the brightest summer afternoon. Pressing the instrument against his lower lip he’d begin a simple tune, a soft harmonious sound that in turn became more complex as he lost himself in the music. It soothed him in the same manner that a mother’s whisper calms a child.